a vivid shade of pale
by lunarennui
Summary: h/d slash - harry trips over his own obliviousness and develops an obsession with draco
1. chapter 1

…you know all that disclaimer stuff? put it here. not mine, don't sue me, all that. have fun.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
Moonstones had always made Harry think of Draco's eyes...coolly silver- grey, but with the promise of light flashing from them with the slightest movement.  
  
He'd managed to restrain himself from actually owning any moonstones for a while...like he needed any more distractions, any more encouragement to think of Draco when the very existence of Draco was a fevered heat on his skin, when all he dreamt of was Draco, when the first thought on waking and the last thought before sleeping was Draco.  
  
But he craved moonstones. Blindly. And when he'd seen the puddle of stormcloud and silver lying neglected in the corner of a display case, he'd bought it without a thought. He couldn't even remember what shop he'd found it in; he'd lost track of his surroundings as soon as he set eyes on it.  
  
It was a choker. Delicate scrollwork held the stones, perfect gems, and the chain mesh in-between subtly drew the eyes in a circling pattern, dizzying. No Muggle metalcrafter could have managed such precision, such beauty. But then again, it was a *choker*. Not the most appropriate gift for a man, let alone one who despised you. He didn't have to work hard to imagine the mockery that would slice at him if he actually gave it to Draco. But it was also the ideal ornament for Draco...it would flatter Draco's pale skin, his slim neck, would suit his own delicacy and elegance. He knew intuitively that it was perfect. Even if he would never see Draco wear it.  
  
So he kept it in his pocket. Randomly throughout his day he would run it through his fingers and think of what it would look like around Draco's throat. Or draw it out of his pocket when he was alone and admire the stones for hours, seeing Draco's eyes in them, too beautiful and precious to share with anyone.  
  
This obsession was tearing him apart. He couldn't think. He spoke rarely, only to respond to direct questions, and his answers were short and distracted. His schoolwork passed merit only thanks to Hermione's Herculean efforts. Ron and Hermione had begun to worry about him ages ago; he could tell, in an abstract corner of his mind, but couldn't make himself care long enough to focus on reality and reassure them. That is, if there was anything reassuring he could say anyway. He ate little and mechanically, mostly to keep Hermione from bothering him about it. He'd lost weight, had smears of dark bruises under his eyes; there was a daze, a vacancy to his face that no one could miss, and he'd gotten enough reprimands in class, lost enough house points, to make all the Gryffindors look at him sideways in irritation.  
  
He couldn't even remember exactly when it had started. It seemed like he'd felt this somewhere hidden in the back of his mind and heart from the moment he'd seen Draco, the instant he'd stepped up onto a stool beside him at Madame Malkin's. If not then, sometime not far from then...he remembered wanting, oh, wanting to take Malfoy's hand on the train, but being more offended than tempted. Dignity had prevailed. This longing had lain dormant through the years, flickering vaguely stronger sometimes during Quidditch matches, in dreams.  
  
But it had come to the forefront with a vengeance during a Potions class months ago, near the end of 6th year, when as punishment for arriving late, Snape had paired him with Malfoy on top of the usual ten points from Gryffindor. Malfoy was too irritated even to speak for the first half of class, and in the unexpected silence, Harry caught himself staring at Malfoy's slender, pale hands as he chopped roots. He'd flushed when he realized what he was doing and went back to crushing dried scarab beetles...until he realized that he couldn't breathe, mesmerized by the taut pull of Malfoy's robe across his spine and shoulder as he reached over to add the chopped roots to the cauldron.  
  
"Work a little slower, can you, Potter?" Draco snapped as he turned back to the table. Harry quickly looked back to his beetles and found that they'd been powdered entirely— unnecessary, but fortunately still useable.  
  
"Sorry...lost track of what I was doing," he responded lamely, and scraped the powder into the cauldron while Malfoy stirred.  
  
"Obviously. Not that I should expect anything better from you." Draco scowled at the bubbling potion, which had started to sparkle with green phosphorescence. "Daydream on your own time, Potter. I need good marks this term and I refuse to let you hold me back."  
  
"Sorry," Harry said again. And nothing else. Draco glanced at him suspiciously.  
  
"Are you sick or something, Potter? Don't breathe on me."  
  
"No, just— er— not thinking clearly today. Look, I said I was sorry, alright?" Harry finally got a little irritated and was relievedly working up to a good fight like usual. This whole staring at Malfoy thing was deeply unsettling, just too damned weird.  
  
To his amazement, Malfoy didn't rise to the occasion, but simply kept stirring for a moment before muttering, "Yeah, well, just pay more attention now, will you?"  
  
"Um...okay." Harry said, taken aback. He quickly measured out the requisite nine drops of dove's blood and added them carefully to the potion. With the last drop it stopped bubbling and began to waft up into a faintly glowing mist.  
  
"Perfect," Snape announced from just behind Harry, startling him. "Quickly, lid the mixture, then bottle it for the aging period. Be most careful not to let any of the mist escape." Malfoy had the lid ready and had it done before Snape finished speaking. "Unlike most of your classmates, you've gotten it right. Take five points for Slytherin and Gryffindor. Although you've still lost your house five points, Potter—"  
  
Snape was cut off by a shriek from Neville, whose potion had turned into an alarmingly bright shade of violet and had slid out of his cauldron and onto the floor, where it appeared to be trying to creep up his ankles. "Longbottom, I ought to let it finish liquefying your feet, honestly, how you manage to persist in such stupidity—" Snape hissed as he hurried over to deal with the problem.  
  
"Not bad, Potter," Malfoy said. Harry's eyes flew to his in amazement as he finished, "Though not for lack of trying to foul it up, I'm sure. Thanks nonetheless."  
  
"Are you sure you're not sick, Malfoy? I thought I just heard you thank me for something."  
  
"Don't get too excited, Potter, I'm sure it won't happen again." Malfoy flashed a grin at Harry. "But this just brought my average up to my parents' satisfaction, even if I don't do so well for the rest of the term." They smiled at each other for a moment, warm green eyes meeting warm grey eyes, then simultaneously looked away awkwardly and started cleaning up.  
  
The rest of class passed in silence, although at one point Harry caught himself staring obsessively at the fragile angles of Malfoy's shoulders when his back was turned, and every nerve seemed to be ultra sensitive toward even the air currents Malfoy created when he moved. Finally class ended, and on the way out Harry spent so much time wondering why Malfoy wasn't acting up to his usual degree of arrogant snot that he almost forgot how very clear his silver eyes had been when he had smiled at him…  
  
Harry'd gone straight up to his bed in the dormitory, skipping dinner and telling Ron and Hermione that he didn't feel well. It was true. He *didn't* feel well. Something very unsettling had happened and he needed some time alone to figure out exactly what the hell was going on.  
  
He'd flung himself on his bed and closed the curtains, bringing one candle in with him to place on a small shelf above his head. Sometimes he preferred a candle to casting light; it was less involving, and it didn't go away when he was completely lost in thought or fell asleep.  
  
…What had happened exactly?  
  
He was vaguely tempted to dismiss the whole thing as a moment of insanity on his part, but that didn't explain Malfoy's unexpected— almost— friendliness; and that interaction had been positively friendly considering Malfoy's personality. So it wasn't just him that was insane. Was it a coincidence, both of them being periodically insane at the exactly right moment? Or…  
  
  
  
Or there was something there.  
  
All right, so he hated Malfoy, or at least very seriously disliked him; Harry couldn't honestly say he hated anyone except Voldemort, and that was enough hatred for him, thank you, it's very exhausting. He didn't want any more hatred. So. He really, truly did not like Malfoy. Forget about that, forget about why for a moment.  
  
At that moment, he had found Malfoy attractive. He'd never even considered Malfoy in a bodily sense except to size him up as a Quidditch opponent, and yes, so he was slim and delicate and all that; Harry wasn't that much better, but he'd used that small bit of height and reach advantage against Malfoy all the same.  
  
At that moment, he had found Malfoy attractive. So what?  
  
It was true, he'd never looked at a male in a sexual sense before; he'd noticed, rarely, that some of the males around him were aesthetically pleasing, in a very detached manner, but he'd never seen one and been *attracted* to him. Until now. Today. Malfoy. …Why?  
  
Harry ran through his mental images and memories of Malfoy and had to say that yes, even at this moment, removed from the situation, he *did* think Malfoy had a distinct beauty and grace to him. In fact, ignoring his attitude and nastinesses, Harry couldn't think of anything that *wasn't* appealing about him.  
  
…Okay. So he'd gone mad (—Malfoy! I think is appealing! Oh gods I've gone barking mad.) but he put even that aside. This did not explain Malfoy's unexpected lack of barbs, and most especially did not explain that moment of warmth in his eyes, when they'd gone crystal-clear and depthless and had seemed to cut a window shining deep into his soul.  
  
On the other hand, he was quite possibly barking mad, so maybe he'd imagined this.  
  
But he couldn't have imagined Malfoy's lack of antagonism; he remembered every moment of that class clearly and he'd left Malfoy innumerable opportunities to mock him or insult him or get him in trouble with Snape, and he'd taken none of them. This led him to believe that maybe, just maybe, he hadn't imagined that warmth.  
  
Malfoy behaved out of character. Ever so slightly, but still— out of character. And he had found Malfoy attractive. Before Malfoy started acting oddly.  
  
This meant he hadn't been led to this craziness by Malfoy's actions; before that, they'd been normal. Therefore, he'd reached insanity on his own, or…Malfoy was attractive. To him. He was…attracted…to Malfoy. Very much so. Enough that it took his breath away.  
  
Harry sat up and clutched at his head, knowing that he couldn't possibly make his hair any less unruly than it was anyway.  
  
All right. There were two options at this point.  
  
Either he was truly completely barking mad, or Malfoy was…indeed…attractive to him. And had behaved oddly when he realised this.  
  
There was only one thing to do at this point.  
  
He had to ask Hermione whether he was mad or not.  
  
***  
  
He met Ron and Hermione on the way back from dinner to the common room. They appeared to be having a good time, and he hated to interrupt that— he'd long since decided it was damned well stupid of them to keep dancing around each other like this, or more appropriately for Ron to keep dancing around 'them' like this, but he *really* needed to talk to Hermione privately.  
  
"Harry!" Ron had spotted him first. "You missed it, Dean was trying to show us what Muggle football is like and Neville accidentally made the pea he was using as the ball shoot right up Dean's nose— oh, are you feeling better?"  
  
"Yeah— but I need to talk to you, Hermione, for a bit. Seriously. 'S that okay Ron? I need her massive intellect and all that stuff."  
  
Hermione frowned a bit, concerned, but Ron was positively alarmed. "Harry, it's the weekend, and you shouldn't be needing massive intellect for anything till at least Sunday. 'Specially since all our O.W.L.s are taken. You sure you're okay?"  
  
"Yeah, I am, but I want to talk about the nature of reality and question existence for a while, and I want to look up proof in the library. I've been thinking a lot."  
  
As he'd known would happen, Ron looked even more alarmed, and despite many objections and much concern about Harry's mental state to care about such things, they managed to force him into the Gryffindor common room. Fortunately there was the usual it's-the-weekend! party going on inside, and he was immediately sucked into it.  
  
"Harry," Hermione said as soon as the Fat Lady had returned to her usual position guarding the portrait hole, "what's going on? You really are acting strangely, you know."  
  
"'Mione, I need you to tell me whether I've gone insane or not."  
  
Hermione looked startled and for the first time since he'd found them truly unsettled. "What's going on? Why are you questioning your sanity?"  
  
Harry sighed. "I noticed something today, and it's so completely bizarre that I have to wonder whether I've completely lost it, and yours is the best outside opinion I know of on that one. I've…found someone attractive. That I never, in my wildest nightmares, would have thought I'd find…attractive."  
  
Hermione whipped her head around to stare at him white-lipped. "Please tell me you've not fallen for Millicent Bulstrode."  
  
"NO! No. No, in no way, not whatsoever, no. UGH. No. Not her. Not a…her…at all actually." Harry felt nauseous at the very thought of Millicent Bulstrode.  
  
"Oh thank goodness." Hermione walked in silence for a bit. "Not a her— so you've fallen for a boy then?"  
  
"I wouldn't say fallen…it's just that nothing has ever really hit me this deeply, so I'm a little stuck on the situation, you know? Not fallen, though, gods no. Just…confused." Harry tried very hard not to blush and stared at his feet. Please let us just get to the library soon.  
  
"Is it…because it's a boy that you're upset?"  
  
"No…I mean, I never thought about liking boys before, I never *really* thought about liking…anyone…like this. I mean, I'm not blind to a pretty girl, I see them and I like them and all, but…this…is, er, different. I mean, not because it's a boy, just…different. More…intense. A lot more intense. And weird. Very weird. Out of nowhere." Harry clenched his fists in handfuls of his robes and wailed, "'Mione, tell me I've gone insane! I can't stand this!"  
  
Hermione laughed. "I can't say you've gone insane, Harry. It just sounds like you've fallen in love, or at least into an infatuation. Or just gotten more than your usual share of lust. Blame it on hormones, if you want to. You sound like you're confused, Harry, but not insane." She grinned at Harry. "Nothing wrong with liking boys, Harry. Unless it's Ron, and in that case, we'll have to fight I suppose, because you *know* I've been putting up with him for far too long to let someone else walk in and take my place." She blushed just a bit as she said this.  
  
"NO! Not Ron. Definitely not Ron. Ron is all yours. Yes. It's…about as far from Ron as you can get actually." Harry had found a whole new level to blushing; he thought his cheeks had fallen into a volcano.  
  
She laughed at him again, through her own blushing. "Good! I don't want to get in a catfight. …You're sure you're not upset because you like a boy? And who is it anyway?"  
  
"No…I mean, it is very weird, very very unexpected, that I'd…er…like…boys. A boy. Anyway. But I don't care about that, really, it's more…who it…is. And I definitely don't want to tell you who. It might go away. I hope it goes away." He felt his blush finally beginning to subside, and realized that all he'd really needed to know he'd found out, and they were— at the library.  
  
"Well…I guess I've got the whole way back to convince you to tell me who it is, don't I?" Hermione grinned at him and took his arm as they turned around, and Harry prayed to anything that might be listening that he could withstand her curiosity 'til they got back…  
  
***  
  
So he wasn't, apparently, crazy. Maybe Hermione would have agreed that he was if he'd told her it was *Malfoy* he'd been stricken by. But he couldn't, and so he trusted her judgment for what it was— usually better than his on a lot of levels, but not always, and not on all of them, particularly gut instinct. And his gut was saying this was…not insane, but a vital demand.  
  
Soon enough— Not soon enough! — summer holidays came; they'd all managed to do at least passably well in their O.W.L.s, Hermione as expected bringing home the most. No one doubted that she'd be notified that she was to be Head Girl this summer. Harry himself had done well enough, not as well as Hermione, but then…that was nothing surprising. Even Ron had done well enough to make his family proud, bringing home a completely surprising 10 O.W.L.s. He blamed Hermione for this, but didn't seem to be actually complaining.  
  
Harry planned to do a lot more thinking this summer. He'd not been able to stop this— whatever it was — with Malfoy. He'd kept being smashed at the most inconvenient times with the absolute realisation of the beauty of Draco Malfoy, of his movements, his shape, everything. He'd been caught staring at Malfoy more than once, several times by Malfoy himself. And not only had he not been in another actual altercation with Malfoy that year, but he'd noticed a distinct lessening in Malfoy's animosity; they'd several times been civil to each other. Malfoy'd even stopped haranguing Hermione and Ron, although he'd not warmed to the point of being truly *polite* to them.  
  
He hoped to be able to cleanse himself of this physical draw, at least, during the months away from school. Perhaps when they got back Malfoy would continue to be unusually friendly, and he would see what could be done with that then. Or maybe he wouldn't, and things would go back to normal. One way or the other, Harry wanted to let this attraction fade with time and distance.  
  
It didn't.  
  
The summer ended with as burning a desire as it had begun. 


	2. chapter 2

For the thousandth time Harry asked himself why he'd never transferred out of Divination. Maybe it was just as well, because gods knew he could use an hour of sleep instead of mind-crushingly difficult lessons, but bloody HELL it was boring sometimes. Arithmancy was looking frighteningly inviting, even considering the stacks of homework Hermione was always doing for it. And he thought he was developing an allergy to the damned incense; he got a headache the instant he got a whiff of it. Though maybe that was psychosomatic.  
  
Although they'd covered every imaginable method of divining short of sacrificing to demons or digging through goat's entrails (Trelawney tended to go into hysterics at the thought of blood), the class dragged onward. This final year they'd finally left astrology behind, to the overwhelming joy of even Lavender and Parvati, and were currently working on— again— scrying. Right now they were trying to find their 'power stone' by picking spheres and crystals to gaze in from an enormous cabinet stuffed with stones of all kinds, colours and shapes. Harry privately referred to it as Trelawney's pet rock collection.  
  
Ron was trying with amethyst today; he had spread out on the table before him a polished egg, a tumbled pebble, a small chunk of crystals still spread on the matrix, and a huge individual crystal. He grumbled almost inaudibly as he looked at them all glumly. Trelawney jingled by, cooing, "Remember to hold your hands above the stones and open yourself to feel their vibrations! Try to commune with the spirit within the stone!" As she moved on causing swirls in the incense that Harry followed with his eyes dazedly, Ron muttered "The only spirits I want to commune with are in Hogsmeade." Harry snickered and tried to bring his attention back to the assortment of rocks *he'd* picked out today.  
  
Ron was going the route of picking a new type of stone each class and grabbing as many examples of it as he could find in the cabinet. Harry just picked up a handful at random since Trelawney kept insisting that 'each stone has its own personality; one piece of carnelian may not like you, but another piece just like it could be your mineral soulmate' and it didn't seem to matter. He and Ron often spent hours sending the Gryffindor common room into gales of laughter by staging conversations between a wizard on a quest for his mineral soulmate and the various stones he looked at.  
  
This whole thing was painfully absurd. They didn't even get to do much scrying, the whole class was spent just 'trying to build an affinity' with a pile of rocks. On the other hand, as long as they appeared to be doing *something* with the rocks, they could pretty much chat freely, as long as they kept it quiet. Ron had actually fallen asleep on some hematite last week and had gotten away with it by claiming that he was connecting with the stone through his dreams! Despite the dents in his cheek from the hematite, Trelawney had bought it and fluttered excitedly while telling the class that Ron had a 'distinct talent' for 'understanding what the stones need.'  
  
Today Ron was making up bad haikus about Trelawney's fashion sense (or lack thereof)—  
  
rhinestone glasses ugh   
heaps of jewellery can't hide  
pink and orange don't mix  
  
  
must come from the trash  
clothes even tourists won't buy  
oh gods she's batty  
  
—and Harry was idly poking at the handful he'd selected today. A smooth piece of moss agate was interesting enough to look at for a while; he put it aside to try gazing in later. He tried and failed to resist the urge to prance a carved jade pony around the edge of the table while Ron tried not to snicker loudly enough to attract attention.  
  
After a bit he put the horse down. He couldn't actually imagine trying to scry in it anyway, all he'd see was the shape of it. Not that he'd really ever seen anything anyway.  
  
Finally he got around to looking at the only stone he'd picked intentionally; a polished moonstone pendulum, complete with silver chain. He'd been vaguely interested in moonstones, well, technically since he'd first heard of them as a child. They sounded pretty, intriguing; hell, they sounded like the moon, didn't they? Pale and inconstant, ever- changing. Intriguing. He'd never actually seen one, hadn't technically known what one would look like, but he'd seen this in the 'moonstone' section (yes, Trelawney organised her pet rock collection by stone type, then into subcategories based on shape, colour, area collected from, and 'psychic colour vibration.') and had snatched it up, finding its shape appealing. Besides, it was a nice, large, clear example of the stone. He could finally look at one and know what they were really like.  
  
He picked it up by the chain and watched it swing lazily. Not as impressive as he'd hoped, really. Just a pale, white-clearish rock, sort of cloudy; crazed and striated with fractures all through it. Like a half-frozen waterdrop, or the moon through a thin cloud. Pretty enough, he supposed.  
  
It slowly settled into an erratic, elliptic sort of clockwise circle-thing. He watched it spin round and round and —  
  
A flash of promise— blue-green-grey-light.  
  
He seized the not-sphere, rotated it slowly in his hand, examining it from each angle, until there! it was again.  
  
The colour ghosted fitfully across the surface, changing shade and angle every time he tried to pull it back. Silvergrey-BLUE-stormcloud-GREEN- waterdrop-lavender. Beautiful. Inconstant and ephemeral. Absolutely beautiful. All he'd ever dreamt they might be.  
  
He released the pendulum, let it swirl and swing as it wished. They'd covered pendulums a year and a half back; they were pretty damned yes/no. But he wasn't asking a question. He watched the stone itself, waiting for the light to streak over its surface just exactly, seeing the colour variation each time. He suddenly understood what made Trelawney collect pet rocks.  
  
Draco's eyes looked out of the pendulum at him for a split second.  
  
He blinked several times, stared.  
  
Waited.  
  
Again.  
  
He snatched the stone in mid-swirl with Seeker reflexes, surveyed the circumference of it with wide eyes. Nothing. Colour with nothing behind it.  
  
Let it go. Draco's eyes glinted out again, snared his with fishhooks till the stone moved out of orbit with the trembling of his hand.  
  
Harry dropped the pendulum with a click of the stone and hiss of the chain on the table. Trelawney was across the room discussing trying to mesh one's aura with that of the stone's spirit with Lavender and Parvati and didn't hear. Even Ron didn't spare him a glance, too busy muttering curses at the chunk of raw amethyst crystals.  
  
He had seen something. Finally. For the first time. He had seen something in a scrying stone.  
  
If you could consider a pendulum a scrying stone. Particularly when it was BEING USED AS A PENDULUM.  
  
He had seen Draco Malfoy's eyes.  
  
He buried his face in his hands, afraid to look or think any longer.  
  
***  
  
It had only gotten worse from that point. His awareness of Malfoy, his beauty, the remembrance of Malfoy's eyes flickering from a swinging crystal, increased every time he saw him. Every time he got away he'd hope that next time seeing the reality would prove his imaginings to be unfounded; every time he'd be staggered by the fact that the reality beat his imaginings hollow.  
  
He'd found other moonstones. They did the same thing to him, no matter what the colour, no matter what the quality. Draco's eyes leapt out at his in almost-imperceptible flickers. He thought it was just imagination by now, but unquestionably, he'd acquired an indelible connection.  
  
Malfoy hadn't been holding up his end of the bargain either when it came to mutual animosity, but by no means could Harry see any especial warmth in his behaviour. There was something…odd…about the way Malfoy was behaving, but it couldn't exactly be considered a burgeoning friendship. Even Crabbe and Goyle seemed taken aback by his apathy, and tended to move away from him, becoming just a hulking pair of sniggers and unfocussed malice in the shadows. Some days Malfoy would flare up in what was almost what he used to be; most days he would fade into something listless and even civil, if you didn't know to look closely for his nasty Slytherin behaviours. Harry often caught him staring off into space with a vacancy, a dullness in his eyes that was utterly unlike him, or at least what Harry'd ever seen him be. He lost weight, which he couldn't afford to lose, his skin and hair lost lustre. Once Harry caught him staring blankly into the surface of his desk with a faintly suffering expression warping his face and noticed blood smeared on his fingers.  
  
Harry watched him all the time, though. Saw the beauty of him even in his dejection, which he hid as soon as he realised someone was watching him.  
  
He didn't dare talk to Ron about the whole thing; Ron was absolute in his hatred of Malfoy, and Harry couldn't fault him considering that Malfoy's sharp tongue hadn't spared Ron at all, until this year, and that didn't make up for all the biting it had done before. He might have brought it up with Hermione, but he felt awkward and foolish after talking to her last year; he was afraid to admit how much worse it had gotten, how obsessive he'd become, how much he imagined he'd seen in someone traditionally unviewable except as an enemy. He was embarrassed for overanalysing every interaction. Harry knew he'd sound like a smitten girl, or like the frighteningly obsessed. And he still couldn't think of admitting that it was Malfoy that he was so desperately drawn to; he hadn't enough experience with being attracted to anyone to say absolutely that he knew his preference was for men, let alone so strongly for men that he wanted even someone who was supposed to be his enemy. Thus far it seemed his preferences entirely were limiting themselves to Malfoy. And he knew even Hermione-the-infinitely-reasonable would be horrified to discover this buried yearning he had was for Malfoy, though she knew he still had a fixation. He held his tongue and hoped the whole thing would blow over.  
  
But it didn't.  
  
And now he carried a choker of moonstones and silver in his pocket all the time, fantasising about how it would bring out the faintest blush of colour in Draco's skin. Wondering if it would appear weighty and clumsy displayed against Draco's fragility. Cursing himself for a damned fool and wishing he could just throw it away, along with this fascination.  
  
But he couldn't.  
  
He asked himself if he could really know what he wanted at 17, know it well enough to risk propositioning someone who, while not exactly an enemy lately, was by no means a friend. Enough to risk alienating his friends, and making himself available as a laughingstock and pariah to the whole school, if Draco turned him down. He wasn't even entirely sure he'd know what to do if Draco didn't turn him down, if he'd find that the reality of touching Draco, kissing him, was unappealing.  
  
No matter how fiercely his logical side argued against it, he found himself coming closer to snapping each day, closer to just saying fuck all and abandoning his self-control and seizing the moment. Or making one. Just getting it over with, one way or another. The uncertainty was driving him mad. Even rejection had to be better than this torment. And hey, there was only the rest of this year to be the school joke, right?  
  
In his saner moments he laughed at himself for an idiot, for playing the moody bastard and getting so sucked into an attraction. But the saner moments came more and more infrequently. 


	3. chapter 3

The Hallowe'en banquet that year was as impressive as ever. Harry actually felt himself rousing into an unusual awareness as he, Hermione, and Ron walked to the Great Hall, laughing and joking in a light-hearted sense of well-being he hadn't felt for ages. Ron and Hermione grinned at each other and answered in kind, and the whole evening seemed shining and carefree to Harry. He allowed himself to think that maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.  
  
Harry didn't even remember to look for Draco. They ate and laughed in highest spirits, Ron and Harry teasing Hermione relentlessly until she turned Ron's hair glowing violet, at which she and Harry laughed till they cried. Ron grumbled a little but eventually gave up and laughed with them. Harry tried to catch one of the bats swooping overhead and ended up with his elbow in the treacle pudding. All in all, it was the best evening Harry could remember for a long, long time.  
  
And then, as the party was winding down a bit and squarely in one of those inevitable mass lulls in conversation, Draco walked in.  
  
"Unstylishly late," Ron muttered with a laugh. "Trust Malfoy to work his entrance timing so he gets the most attention." Hermione smiled a little, but said nothing and glanced at Harry.  
  
Harry was transfixed. Draco wasn't wearing his school robes, just a plain black turtleneck and jeans. Kind of funny, Harry mused, wearing robes all the time makes it as significant in the wizarding world to see a man's legs as a woman's. He'd never noticed how long and slender Draco's legs were. Or really, exactly how long and slender he was entirely, looking almost otherworldly with his skin and hair strikingly pale against the black. His face was a little too pointed and refined to be called handsome, just a little too lovely, a little too fragile for a classic sense of masculinity. He was...just a little too much, too much of everything for comfort.  
  
Harry tried to keep up his place in the conversation, but kept losing track of what he was saying while watching Malfoy saunter smoothly to the Slytherin table and pick over the food. Ron sighed with exasperation and Hermione shook her head at him warningly.  
  
Across the room, Crabbe and Goyle blundered toward Draco, who stopped them with a scowl and an imperious flick of his hand. While his attention was on them, Pansy Parkinson sidled up close to him and took his arm. Draco visibly started, then hissed something at her and shook her off. She pouted, and he snapped, then clearly lost all patience and stalked off with a forbidding glare at Pansy. He hadn't even eaten anything.  
  
Harry stood before he realized what he was doing.  
  
"Harry—" Ron started, but Hermione cut him off.  
  
"Go on, Harry; there's no time like the present."  
  
Ron scowled at her in puzzlement, but Harry blinked with surprise.  
  
"You think I should, 'Mione?" Harry asked her, ignoring Ron.  
  
"I think you need to," she replied gently.  
  
Harry hesitated for a second, then nodded. He should have known Hermione would have noticed what was going on, would understand him even without an explanation. He should have trusted himself enough to talk to her. Now it seemed he didn't need to.  
  
"Wish me luck, then," he threw over his shoulder to her as he hurried after Malfoy, hand unconsciously clutching the choker in his pocket. He moved so swiftly he barely heard Hermione say "Luck, Harry," then shush Ron.  
  
Harry caught up with Malfoy much sooner than he'd expected; for all his haste in leaving the Great Hall, Draco didn't seem to be in any particular hurry, walking slowly and watching his feet scuff along the floor. He glanced back without stopping when Harry called his name, then paused when he saw it was Harry.  
  
"Yes, Potter?" Malfoy didn't sound particularly interested, though he didn't sound hostile either; Harry thought he seemed melancholy. Not unusual lately.  
  
"I was wondering— can I talk to you for a minute, Malfoy?" Harry found it hard to breathe normally; his lungs seemed to want to either stop entirely or go like mad, and his heart was pounding as though it had suddenly turned twice its size.  
  
"Thought you were talking to me." Malfoy looked uncertain for a moment, then said, "Sure, why not. Care for a stroll? I was heading to the Astronomy tower...I suppose it won't kill me to have you tag along for a bit." His tone somehow lacked the irritation it ought to have held, giving Harry the strength he needed to keep trying to go through with this. Whatever 'this' was. He felt he'd lost touch with reality entirely.  
  
They walked in silence for a while, each second weighing uncomfortably, an expectation unfulfilled. Finally Malfoy threw a glance at Harry and said, "Thought you wanted to talk to me, Potter, not brood with me."  
  
"I...I was waiting until we got where you were going." The long minutes of silence had weighed on Harry, and it took a conscious effort to speak again. He flushed, feeling ever so much the fool, and asked himself for the first time whether he should just call this whole thing off. Then he remembered Hermione's urging, and with a slight shake of his head, cast off everything but determination again.  
  
"Fine then, if that's what you want. It makes no difference to me," Malfoy said with a graceful shrug; Harry wondered fleetingly whether such movements were taught to him, or whether they were just bred in, like his beauty. They walked on.  
  
Harry used the rest of the walk to re-evaluate, yet again, Malfoy's behaviour— or lack of such— over the past several weeks. It still seemed to him that the insults lacked the sting of intention that they'd always had before, and that they'd been far fewer than Malfoy's opportunity to deliver should have made them. Something was not the same.  
  
Something like hope caught in Harry's chest, exorcised with the next breath; he reminded himself that the only thing that mattered was spilling this burden at Malfoy's feet, not what came after. He was strong enough to handle rejection, he told himself over and over. He was strong enough to handle mockery, even the mockery and antagonism of the whole school. He'd done it in second year, and as long as his friends stood by him, he could do it again. But he couldn't handle this silent need anymore.  
  
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of grey, cold stone hallways, they mounted the staircase to the top of the tower.  
  
Malfoy strode immediately to the battlements, something of his usual fluidity lacking in his movements. Again, the vulnerable curve of his neck, his slouched posture threw a sense of deep melancholy at Harry.  
  
"So, what was it anyway, Potter? What was important enough to come all the way up here?" Malfoy sounded indifferent, but his hand trembled faintly as he brushed hair bleached stark white in the moonlight out of his eyes.  
  
The moment was here. The moment was *now*. Harry took a deep breath and ignored his shaking knees.  
  
"Malfoy..." Oh *gods*, he thought, why, oh *why* didn't I plan out this little speech?!? "I...I don't want us to be enemies anymore, Malfoy." There, that didn't sound too foolish, did it? He couldn't feel his fingers or lips, but the flush on his cheeks burned like nothing he could remember.  
  
Malfoy turned slowly toward Harry, but his eyes remained lost in the shadow of the tower stretching below them. "Not enemies, Potter? What, then? And why the change of heart?" His voice was soft, uncertain.  
  
What now, what now? Harry bit his lip, then burst out, "I don't know what we could be, besides enemies. I...I want to...I want to touch you, to know you better, to know you without hatred or even dislike between us. I don't know that that's possible, but I want it, I want...something more...with you."  
  
Malfoy's eyes finally drifted away from the dark beneath the tower and raised themselves ever so slowly to Harry's.  
  
1 "To touch me, Potter? You want to touch me?"  
  
Harry searched his face for any hint of emotion, but what he could see of Malfoy's face was blank, carved of marble.  
  
"...I...yes, dammit, I want to touch you." Harry's nails cut into his palms; he hadn't even realized he'd clenched his fists. "Does that disgust you so very much?"  
  
Malfoy said nothing for an interminable moment, eyes locked with Harry's.  
  
"You want to touch me...to touch *me*." Malfoy took one slow step toward Harry, then another, while Harry held his place with held breath and trembling hands. Malfoy made a strange noise deep in his throat and reached out one fine-boned, slim hand and brushed his fingers across Harry's chin, eyes still holding Harry's relentlessly.  
  
Harry caught Malfoy's hand in his as it dropped away. "Yes, Malfoy...Draco...*you*."  
  
Draco's eyes widened slightly, then fell to their feet.  
  
"But...why?" Draco's hand grasped Harry's convulsively, desperately, though he refused to look up. "What have I ever done to earn anything but hatred from you?"  
  
Harry reached out with his other hand and tipped Draco's chin up until Draco reluctantly met his eyes. Depthless green melded with depthless grey for an instant with a physical shock. Then Harry leaned forward and lightly, so lightly, touched his lips to Draco's.  
  
Draco's lips were tense, unyielding for a moment, and Harry braced himself to draw back, but all at once with a tiny sigh Draco softened into the caress. Harry dared to slide his hand up Draco's jawline and into his hair. It was soft, so sweetly silken on the back of his hand, tangled in his fingers. Draco didn't protest but opened his mouth and turned his head trustingly into the kiss.  
  
This was more than Harry had dreamed. He dropped Draco's hand, still linked with his, and cupped Draco's face between his two hands while kissing him as deeply as he dared.  
  
Draco returned the kiss with no intimation of reluctance.  
  
Harry forced himself to pull away from the kiss finally, resting his forehead against Draco's. "Tell me to stop, tell me to go now, if that's what you want, Draco..." Harry whispered. "Tell me what you want."  
  
Draco's hand crept up to curve around Harry's neck. "I want...I..." He paused, then finished in a rush, "Don't stop, Harry..."  
  
Harry closed his eyes, overwhelmed with the softness of Draco's skin and completely disarmed by that 'Harry.' He pulled Draco suddenly against him, arms twining around Draco's slim form, bodies pressed together tightly. Draco sobbed faintly and buried his face in Harry's neck.  
  
He never wanted to let go. He wanted to savour this moment forever. Draco fit against him so perfectly...it felt like home. But with infinite willpower Harry managed to offer one last out for Draco, one last chance to turn him away.  
  
"Am I taking advantage of you tonight, Malfoy?" He forced himself to use the old formality despite the fact that it had been, would always now be *Draco* in his mind. "You're unusually defenceless...is it fair of me to do this now?" Oh, he didn't want to ask; he wanted nothing more than to continue this, to kiss Draco till the stars faded. But honour overrode his need, concern for Draco. He knew, far back in his head, that he didn't want Draco unwilling; he didn't want to question this later; he longed, he needed to hear Draco consent before he could indulge himself with a clear heart.  
  
"You must learn...Harry...that sometimes, not always but sometimes, one should take what one wants, without concern for consequences or morality." Draco spoke into his collarbone, his breath striking Harry's skin with heat like a blow. "This time, just this one time, I'll indulge you in your naïvety." He raised his head, slowly, so slowly, until once again he met Harry's eyes. "I want this like I've never wanted anything. The only difference is that tonight I abandon my masks, I abandon my defences, and I wait. I wait for you. Take me, Harry. Have me. I am a gift, and I will not be offered twice."  
  
Harry could not breathe. He stared unabashedly into Draco's eyes, so clear, so guileless, depthless and so naked with need that he could not question their honesty. Then, with a choked noise that was half sob, half laugh, he seized Draco's mouth and kissed him fiercely.  
  
Draco yielded before his onslaught, then responded desperately, tongue twining with Harry's, their teeth clicking and pressing against each other in an effort to mesh beyond physical capacity. They kissed for what seemed like forever, past when lips bled with biting and lungs forgot how to fill.  
  
It was Draco who finally broke the kiss. Harry breathed a protest softly, eyes unfocussed with desire, but subsided when Draco's mouth traced a painful and fierce path down Harry's throat, leaving a trail of bruises in its path. He bit lightly on Harry's collarbone and they shivered as one when Harry moaned.  
  
"Draco— I can't continue this, I can't do this...not here...there's got to be someplace, someplace...private..." Harry could barely speak, so overwhelmed, his whole body pulsing with need.  
  
Draco continued kissing along the helpless curve of Harry's throat before answering. "There's a storeroom...not so far from here...but not spacious." He bit Harry's chin and waited for a response.  
  
"I can't...guarantee...that I don't need space with you...I don't want this to be— less than perfect, Draco..." Harry found it nearly impossible to hold himself upright, and wondered when exactly they'd ended up leaning against a battlement. Thank all the gods the wall was too high to allow accidental falling, even at its lowest parts. He could take no credit for their safety, and he didn't particularly think Draco could either...fortune was smiling on them, for once.  
  
"Harry..." Draco closed his eyes and turned his head away, though he didn't loosen his arms from Harry's waist. "I promised myself I would never ask this...but...are you sure that it's *me* you want? I— I don't want this, if you're having me stand in for someone else." He swallowed harshly.  
  
Harry pressed his lips against Draco's temple tenderly and knew that he'd lost the ability to conceal this truth. "You, Draco, you and no one else. It's you I've wanted for what feels like forever, you I want now, you...I want...you..." He trailed off, closing his mind to forever and foolish promises, forcing himself to think of now, only now.  
  
Draco shuddered convulsively then tore himself away from Harry, grasping Harry's hand. He looked into Harry's face with a smile holding only joy and anticipation. "Follow me, then...there's someplace else I know..." 


	4. chapter 4

Harry followed Draco willingly down the stairs and through the hallways, at first recognising their path then becoming more and more lost in the disused, dusty passageways Draco led him along. Finally Draco paused at an ancient wooden door. Most of his mind and body was alive with Draco's presence, but Harry spared a tiny part of himself to wonder both where this passageway led ultimately and how Draco had found this place anyway. He'd never noticed it on the Marauder's Map.  
  
Before he knew it they were inside the room and the door was closed behind them...Draco leaned against it while casting a locking spell.  
  
For a long, long moment nothing happened. Harry looked at Draco's feet, or rather his toes, peeking from under his robes. Draco made no movement, no sound, hands flattened against the door and wand stuffed back in a pocket.  
  
All at once Harry moved, trapping Draco against the door with his own body— exactly what both of them had wanted. He teased Draco for a moment, brushing lips against lips, nose against nose, pelvis insisting contact then rolling away, before pressing himself fully against Draco and engaging him in a kiss as deep as either of them had dreamed. Tongues twined, teeth pressed against each other in a dance primal and mindless. Draco moaned softly as Harry faintly traced his tongue along Draco's lower lip.  
  
Hands wandered, sliding up sleeves, down collars, unfastening clasps and pulling up shirts. They were both in a state of semi-undress when Harry broke off the kiss, gasping, to look for someplace to lie down. He turned, and found that the room was what looked to be an unimaginably old guest bedroom; long since used for storage, heaps of stacked chairs and desks and dusty textbooks along the walls…but the bed was still there, pristine and untouched under the layer of dust, as was a basin and pitcher set that any antiquarian would pay through the nose for. A large, filthy window cast moonlight on the floor before the bed across the room to glance up along the upturned spidery legs of a student's desk. He seized Draco's hand and pulled him unresisting toward the bed. It was so old that there was a carved set of steps to climb up to it; fashions had *long* since made beds a reasonable height. The age of the bed, the dust on it, was unspeakably sweet to Harry, infinitely perfect. To consummate something newborn and valuable in something ancient and valuable, both untouched for time out of mind…yes, too perfect. He turned halfway up the steps and smiled sweetly down at Draco, who closed his eyes and lifted his face for a kiss. Harry indulged them both and gently caressed Draco's mouth with his in a silken, liquid kiss.  
  
Draco reached up and brushed the half-open robe off of Harry's shoulders, stopping the kiss long enough to pull off the tee-shirt Harry wore underneath. Harry hadn't even realised that somewhen he'd managed to take off his glasses and stuff them in a pocket until he didn't have to take them off to let Draco undress him. Draco brushed his fingertips down over the curve of Harry's shoulders, then in and ever so lightly over Harry's nipples, making Harry gasp and shudder and Draco bury his face in Harry's neck again.  
  
Harry raised unfocussed, half-lidded eyes to the ceiling, then tugged Draco's turtleneck off of him, Draco raising his arms and head helpfully. They gazed at each other for a moment, then came to the same tacit understanding and both slipped off their shoes and socks, jeans, and boxers.  
  
Then they were both naked, aroused, gleaming like chilled cream in the moonlight. Soft curves and subtle planes of muscle, the faint shimmer of skin stretched over hipbones; neither of them could quite bring themselves to touch what they saw, despite the cool air pressing on them both. Both their bodies were smooth and slim and faintly muscled from Quidditch, shining and graceful in the light; Harry noticed with a tiny part of his mind that Draco had faint silvery scars and half-healed slices running in parallel lines all down his arms, across his belly, along his thighs, but none of these detracted in the least from the utter gut-wrenching beauty of his body, so slender, so pale, so…perfect.  
  
…So beautiful, so completely beautiful, they both thought, each gazing at the other's body.  
  
Finally Harry broke the crystalline moment, seizing Draco by the arm and pulling him up the steps to stand beside him with one hand while with the other he yanked back the covers on the bed. A cloud of dust filled the room, illuminating the broad shaft of moonlight with a hundred thousand points of glittering white. The sheets, however, were soft as a thought with time and as clean as the day they were made.  
  
"Come to bed, love," Harry whispered, and tumbled them both onto the sheets.  
  
***  
  
Harry traced a random pattern on Draco's moist shoulder with his fingertip. He smiled briefly, enjoying the feel of heated, damp skin against heated, damp skin before saying, "Thank you, Draco."  
  
Draco sighed, deep and long, and stared at the ceiling. "You do realise that my father would completely approve of this, don't you, Harry?" His voice was slow and heavy with satiation despite the content of the words.  
  
"No, I'd have to say I certainly don't realise anything of the sort. Why on earth would your father approve of us snogging, you bedding me?" In fact, the thought of Lucius heartily congratulating Draco on his conquest made Harry slightly nauseous.  
  
"Harry. My father has been encouraging me to seduce you for years now." Draco tightened his arms around Harry. "He wants me to crawl into your bed, then have you fall desperately in love with me. And then he thinks he'll have a perfect source of information and a potential knife at your throat either as long as our relationship continues, or a way to neutralise you permanently if such presents itself." He sighed again. "And if I didn't care for you, he'd be right."  
  
Harry was shocked for a split second; first because it was horrifying that someone could callously force their own child into something so calculating and cold, then at Draco's honesty in revealing the plot to him. Then he registered the last bit.  
  
"You…care for me?" Harry pulled away from Draco to look into his eyes, a liquid, bottomless silver. "Tell me the truth, Draco. Tell me how you feel about me." He searched those eyes, that lovely, pointed face, for the faintest sign of dishonesty, of secrets.  
  
There were none.  
  
"I'm in love with you, Harry. I have been for a long time." Draco met his eyes easily, guilelessly. "How else could I have been so horrid to you for so long? I think, I think I've loved you since I first met you. Not before then; I read everything in the Daily Prophet and all those damned books and I hated you; I hated everything about you. I resented your very existence. I hated that you had ended the glorious reign of everything my family wanted, that you were famous for it, that everyone loved you and you were so fucking special. And then I saw you and I knew who you were, of course; I'd read a thousand descriptions, hadn't I?…and I found that for some reason all the things I'd always MEANT to do when I first saw you were useless, and I pretended to not know you so I could meet you for the first time and talk to you and forget everything I'd ever known about you for just a bit." Draco took a deep breath. "And I approached you with everything I knew of, everything I knew how to be, and you rejected me there on the train, and it *hurt* Harry, it hurt. It was a slap in the face, when I'd only just decided to allow myself to be vulnerable to you. So I added that to all the nastiness I'd been raised to have towards you, and I ran with it. I was as unpleasant as the depth of my feeling allowed.'  
  
Draco untwined himself from Harry and sat up, legs hanging off of the side of the bed, staring at the dusty stone floor; he ran a hand through his damp hair and sat for a long moment. Harry didn't move. He knew this was infinitely hard for Draco and he was terrified of breaking the spell, of silencing him when he was working so hard to bare his heart. And if he ruined this, there would never be another chance.  
  
"My father had always wanted me to make friends with you. I paid for you turning me down, paid for it in blood, over and over again. And nothing my father did, nothing I could do to myself, hurt as much as just the simple fact that then, there, at that moment, I had *wanted* it so badly, had wanted to see what could happen to my world with you in it. And you had denied me that. So I was horrible to you. I was as nasty and superior and arrogant a bastard as I knew how to be. Despite that, I wanted nothing more than your acceptance."  
  
Draco was trembling; Harry noticed, and hoped that it wasn't from chill, because he was trying very hard not to breathe audibly, let alone be so distracting as to put a blanket round Draco's shoulders.  
  
"I didn't care so much about my father's disapproval; it's nothing new, really. But there was always this current between us, you and I, I mean, and my father picked up on that. And he thought of another way that I could be useful. And I defied it, I worked twice as hard to be your enemy, so that he couldn't use me to hurt you; I hurt you on my own to keep you safe from him, because believe me Harry, there is nothing that I could do to you that would come close to what my father might do. Never underestimate him."  
  
Draco finally turned back towards Harry, and reached out a shaking hand to brush hair from Harry's eyes. "I have loved you for a very, very long time, Harry Potter. And I have hidden it for a very, very long time. And then you stopped being hostile. Do you know how hard it's been to try to continue to pick and prate and snipe at you? Even your damned friends, who under normal circumstances I wouldn't think twice about, but because you care for them and not me, I've had to examine ruthlessly and relentlessly for value? Then be nasty to them anyway, and the whole time knowing they're better than me, you took them and not me? Do you know how difficult and painful this whole charade has been?"  
  
He took a long breath.  
  
"It was never so hard before, when you responded properly." Draco looked away again, clasped fine, slim hands and studied them intently. "You always had what I wanted. From the moment we met. You always won, some way or another. You always beat me. And I—" He shuddered. "—I truly *hate* to be beaten. At anything. Accept it gracefully— right. Whatever. Not possible. Before I met you, I was always the best at everything— everything, Potter." The formality helped a little, helped ease the agony of tearing these bleeding truths out of his gut.  
  
"And you…you've always turned me down, turned me aside, taken that place I'd been raised to think was mine. You rejected me. Absolutely. And I hated you for it. And I…I envied you for it. So I tried to hurt you. And you even turned that aside most times. You responded, but I could never beat you, I could never be the WINNER. Do you see? I could never regain that…I was always inferior after I met you. Inferior. Not quite good enough. There was never any possibility of us being anything but friends or enemies, Potter, two alphas can't meet and be indifferent to each other, and you decided which when we first met; and I'll admit that I was a bit of an ass, but gods, I'd never known how to be anything else, I'd never been allowed to think of it as a possibility…always had to be the fucking superior being. Once when I was very little I made friends with a house elf. My father found out…the bruises didn't fade for weeks…and the house elf died. Died, Potter, do you understand that? My father killed him. Every time I try to think of behaving in some way outside of what's been proven to be acceptable, I remember that…I feel that, I feel sick, I feel like I'm four years old and my best friend has been murdered and his bloody broken limp body shoved into my face while my father shouts at me and whips me. Do you understand that? Do you have any idea what that's like?"  
  
Draco paused for a long moment and wiped tears from his cheeks; Harry was frozen in uncertainty, wanting to console him, wanting to answer, but still afraid that speaking now would shatter Draco like a struck icicle. He waited. Eventually Draco went on.  
  
"Anyway…all this time I hated you, I envied you, you'd turned me down, rejected me, and then kept you compounding the insult and I was responding as best I could, this whole time…in the back of my head I was admiring you. You were the only person I'd ever known that I could consider an equal…or could maybe strive to be an equal with…I've known inferiors, and superiors, but never an equal. And you were *beating* me, *beating* me all the *time* and yet, and yet, you were my age and mostly on my level and sometimes I thought maybe *this* time I could actually *win* for once, I thought if I just pushed a little harder… And then you'd look at me and think that maybe here was someone you could respect, something unusual, someone who was your equal."  
  
The words were ripping out of him like flung stones, hard and fierce, a violent torrent of pain and desolation. His body seemed too frail to vocalise them.  
  
"I wanted you and I hated you and I loved what you were and hated you for what you stood against all at once, and no matter what I really felt I had to be nasty to you, because the alternative was to break like I have now and fall before you: and I have. I have. Do you see? Do you see what I've done? I've given you everything, you can take me apart now and I have no defence. I fought you as long as I could and then *DAMMIT* you stopped fighting back, you stopped fighting me! What the hell can you expect, I'm not made of stone no matter how much I wish I was, I can only last through so much for so many years!"  
  
He sat silent again for what felt like hours, gasping. Finally a faintly bitter smile twisted his mouth.  
  
"I blame you entirely for this." His gesture encompassed the room, the trail of discarded clothing between the door and the bed, the tangled sheets.  
  
Harry smiled sweetly. "I've never been so glad to be at fault, then." He reached up and seized Draco's wrist. "I can't control what happened in the past; all I can say is that I saw my side and an infinitely limited part of your side, and I reacted as best I could. I never knew you felt like this. I knew what I felt, I thought there was more to you, but I never knew all of you, just what I saw. But yesterdays don't matter right now. Right now is what is, and that's what's most important. I'm sorry for yesterday. …But I'll never be sorry for now."  
  
He pulled Draco back down beside him; Draco came willingly and they curled together in a tangle of warm limbs and comfort. "I love you, Draco. It'll all be okay. We'll figure out a way."  
  
In the utter relaxed pleasure of touching each other there was a long silence.  
  
"…You just said you loved me."  
  
"Yes, I did. And I do."  
  
"….But…why?" There was an anguish, a desperate hope in Draco's voice that Harry couldn't deny. It cut to the quick, revealing an old, old insecurity, a lack of self-worth that Harry knew intimately.  
  
"Oh, beloved." Harry kissed Draco's eyelids, his nose, his forehead, his cheeks. He stopped before he lost the moment, and he knew, oh, he knew how important the answer was to Draco, the bleeding he could stop now or deepen to an eventually fatal wound. He was careful with his answer, but delivered before the silence grew painfully long.  
  
"I love you because you're brilliant, capable, because there's more to you than one can fathom in shallow interactions; because there's a pain in you, a capacity for feeling in you, that I've never known in anyone else; because in spite of the fact that you've been my rival and enemy, you are the only peer I know that I can consider my true equal in capacity for feeling, for depth, capability. I *have* noticed that, love. I love your beauty, and the liquid grace with which you move, and the gleam of your silver eyes as you glance up from your schoolwork; I love the very creativity with which you've tried to insult and hurt me. I see you, I see this great potential in you for vast understanding and enjoyment, and I want to fulfil that. I *see* you, love, behind the animosity you put up as a mask. I love you. I want to know you better. I want to know what makes you smile on a warm sunny day. I want to know you to the bottom of your soul. Because I know you're worth knowing. Even if I don't like much of what you've done in the past. Does that explain it adequately, beloved?"  
  
Draco had started leaking tears silently somewhere in the middle of this speech. By the time Harry was done he was sobbing softly into Harry's shoulder. Harry held him, hoping, praying that what he had been able to vocalise was enough to stanch the bleeding, was enough to bring Draco back from that chasm. He knew that many, if not all, of the cuts on Draco's body were self-inflicted. He knew the emptiness and pain of self-hatred. He only hoped he could say the right things to draw Draco back from that edge.  
  
Draco cried for a very long time. Harry didn't interrupt him, but stroked his neck, his back, his arms, his hair, occasionally murmuring sweet loving things. He soothed Draco as best he could, and waited. Eventually Draco's sobs slowed, then stopped, and a while after his breathing returned to normal, Harry stopped feeling hot tears drip onto his skin. He closed his eyes and relaxed, completely willing to go to sleep trustingly, make love again, or continue the conversation, whichever Draco needed.  
  
***  
  
Much later, as Harry picked up his robes to put them on, he felt a forgotten weight in the left pocket. He paused for all of a second, then said, "Draco. Come here."  
  
Draco was folding down the collar of his turtleneck; as soon as he was done, he came willingly. "Yes, Harry? What is it?"  
  
Harry pulled down the collar that he'd just folded so precisely, crushing it down to a mess around the base of Draco's neck. He pulled the choker from his pocket and fastened it around Draco's neck. It fit, just as perfectly as he'd imagined. He allowed a small portion of his mind to wonder how he'd estimated its length so accurately. The rest of his mind was absorbed in seeing the object embodying his fantasies wrapped round the throat of the object of his fantasies.  
  
It was, in all ways, sublime. Draco stood silently, smiling softly, and the choker curved round his throat beautifully, exactly as Harry had imagined. The silverwork vied for favour with Draco's beauty; the moonstones fought for prominence with Draco's eyes. Each enhanced the other. It was a perfect match.  
  
Draco reached up, ran his fingers lightly across the cool, round stones. "Giving me jewellery already, Harry?" He smiled and feather-light stroked Harry's cheek.  
  
"You don't mind? …That it's not…not some other kind of jewellery?" Harry held his breath against Draco's reply.  
  
"While I haven't looked at it personally, I know you well enough to know that you wouldn't be putting any old piece of junk on me…you thought of me enough to give me this. It could be pig iron and I'd treasure it." Harry found the softness in Draco's eyes almost unbearable. He didn't think he deserved that amount of trust, in this respect anyway; he'd known, told himself firmly for so long that it was wrong, embarrassing…  
  
"It's entirely insignificant, as far as I know, except that I first saw a moonstone and thought of your eyes; then I saw this and bought it because it made me think of you. I've kept it with me since, thinking of you and whether it would flatter you, what you would think of it…incessantly, I must admit. I'm sorry. I'm sorry it's not something else, something better. …Are you disgusted?" Harry felt his cheeks burning and tried not to sound like an utter fool.  
  
"Harry, love, as I said, I am fully aware that this thing has immense value simply inasmuch as you've acquired it and thought of me…I haven't had the chance yet to look at it, but I also trust your judgment enough that I suspect I'll find it beautiful in and of itself, and henceforth will wear it joyously. What are you looking at me like that for? I'm overwhelmed that you would think of me enough to give me this. Why would I want it to be something else? What's the trouble, Harry?"  
  
Harry blushed uncomfortably and tried not to look Draco in the eyes. "Nothing, Draco…except I've been wanting to give this to you for months, and I haven't, because I thought you'd laugh at me and on top of that I've never seen a man wear something like it, it's an unusual type of jewellery to give a man; I thought you'd be offended. But…every time I touched it in my pocket, I thought of you; every time I thought of it, from the moment I bought it, I thought of you. So I gave it to you just now. Hoping that you wouldn't hate it." He closed his eyes, hoping desperately that Draco wouldn't disdain his gift; he'd accepted so much, allowed Harry so much, how could he expect everything to go right? Surely this must go wrong. Something always did. Didn't it?  
  
Draco bit his lip, touched the choker again. "Harry, you've thought about this for far longer than a moment. Find me a mirror. I want to see it before I answer you."  
  
Harry cast around the room abstractly, the rational part of him (not always indulged, but hey, he was post-orgasmic and tired here) ordering that he check his immediate area before running off elsewhere— and there, there it was, in a corner, covered by a sheet rendered semi-translucent with age. He knew the shape under it was a mirror. HAD to be a mirror. He moved towards it with knees still shaking with tension and nerves. This whole thing HAD to go wrong. Eventually. Somehow.  
  
The sheet tore as he touched it and drifted into a pile of dusty, used-to- be-white shreds at the base of the carved wooden stand. A distant part of his mind pointed out that no matter the cost, he'd like to buy the furniture in this room from Dumbledore; the logical part of him (equally distant, and shoved back into a corner of his mind, along with his rationale and good common sense), the development of which he blamed on Hermione, wondered where in hell he'd manage to put the furniture if purchased. But he forgot all of this when Draco brushed him aside to stand before the mirror and pulled his turtleneck off and dropped it in one fluid motion. He spent several seconds staring at Draco's reflection, resplendent in his own skin and the healed/healing rents in it, then moved upwards hesitantly to see the choker living on his throat like a previously unknown part of his body, glowing and gleaming with far more allure than it had ever had on its own.  
  
"…It's…exquisite, Harry. It's…if I could have picked something out for myself, I'd have picked this…except I couldn't have; I don't know myself this well. It's utterly…perfect. Right. …How did you do this? How did you know?" Draco obviously wanted to touch the choker, his hands kept fluttering between his chest and hips; but he never quite managed to reach up far enough to make contact with it, or down far enough to let his hands settle at his sides.  
  
"It was purely instinct, love. I don't know myself how it worked so exactly. I saw it; I bought it; I yearned for an opportunity to see it on you. I'm marvelling myself at how well it fits you, in all senses…and I'm…overwhelmed…to see…the realisation of a long-harboured dream."  
  
Draco turned back to him, heart shown naked in his eyes and stance, and Harry had already spent all his self-control earlier in the evening; he took him in his arms and kissed him with all the repressed longing and love and desire left in him.  
  
Eventually, they returned to the bed, the choker shining out in unexpected moments with multiple tantalising, electrifying bursts of colour…in the middle of their love, in the moonlight.  
  
On the inside, one word engraved on the backing of each stone, it said:  
  
I am the realisation of what you've hidden. I reveal you. I complete you. 


End file.
